


Winning means losing, so let's go till the end

by royallieu



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Inspired by Season 7 Spoilers, Lots of it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 14:50:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9446174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royallieu/pseuds/royallieu
Summary: Sansa hatches a scheme in order to protect what’s left of a broken heart. Jon tries to make sense of it all.





	

When the final horn blew, a long, deep sound that drifted far into the distance, Sansa knew that she couldn’t prolong her absence any longer. Even then, she took her time stepping out from beneath the beamed roof of the Great Keep into the main courtyard, her hands holding her skirts from coming into contact with the muddy ground beneath her boots, while her hair danced against her cheeks. Without command, her household parted a way for her as she made her way to the front of the crowd and beyond, just as the first members of her husband’s party trotted through the tall archway. _I’m his wife and queen_ , she reminded herself, but that did little to generate enthusiasm. The words were meaningless to her, these days; it had been that way for some time now, ever since she’d accepted just how disenchanted Jon was with her, with his title, with the world he continued to live in. Everything between them was a performance now, done for the sake of maintaining their appearances. Nothing, though, was as great a pretense as their marriage. It was like a tapestry, woven from the threads of political necessity, rather than those of love and passion. _And now the tapestry has caught fire_ , she mused, thinking to herself how truly apt the analogy was.

It wasn’t the kind of thinking she wanted going through her mind when Jon emerged from the archway at last, astride his black palfrey and clad in furs she knew he had had little use for while he had been in the south. Such thoughts had certainly not been present when he had once ridden through the gates of Winterfell on that cold, blistering day more than a year ago, his face desolate and wary, despite the victory he had lead them towards, one so grand in scale and magnitude that it would be the only thing anyone would sing about for centuries and centuries. And while the songs did crop up, soon enough, Sansa had failed to heed the lyrics that referred to other events, of a love affair that had been consummated on a royal barge between Dragonstone and King’s Landing, one so passionate and all-consuming it could have brought the Wall down, had it not been the Night King who had gotten to it first. It was only after Sansa had said her vows in the godswood, while Jon stood before her with an unreadable look on his face—only after she realized that he couldn’t love her the way he loved another, that she realized her blunder. It was a fact that she should have wised up to, when the chance had still permitted itself: _never marry a man obsessed with another woman_. She’d encountered it so often, too—Rhaegar Targaryen, Robert Baratheon, Littlefinger—that they all could have been an omen, for all she knew, and yet she had chosen to ignore all the signs.

Jon caught sight of her almost immediately, but she held her head high, meeting his gaze with a determined look of her own. She was no longer optimistic enough to believe that he had stayed faithful to her while he’d been in King’s Landing, but she’d be damned if she let him think that she was affected by it. If she had any advantage in this situation, it was that she knew about it the whole time, that Jon had never really stopped loving Daenerys Targaryen. She might not have taken notice of the signs when she had the chance, but that hadn’t meant that the knowledge hadn’t lingered in the back of her consciousness. Now that she had accepted it, Sansa refused to buckle under the emotions, no matter how badly her heart had shattered at the reality of it all. _I sought preservation, not love,_ she reminded herself, and found it more comforting than what she had told herself earlier. Neither was it love she felt for Jon, she reasoned, watching as he dismounted from his horse. Familiarity, perhaps, during a time of war and uncertainty, when death had seemed so imminent for everyone, and the fantasy of living happily ever after with a man whom she thought could love her as much as she loved him was as comforting as the heat from a fire in the middle of a freezing winter night. She knew that she only had herself to blame for believing that her fantasy could potentially grow from something less ideal.

“Welcome back, husband,” she said, as he approached her. She stood a distance apart from those of their household who were present to welcome their king back, and for a moment she wished that that wasn’t the case; they would have served her well by reminding her of the role she must perform, the mask she needed to keep in place. _If only you had stayed in King’s Landing, like I told you to,_ she thought. _If only you had listened._

“The North has missed you greatly,” Sansa proclaimed, loud enough for those present to hear. Jon’s face was enough evidence of his fatigue, but there was a hardness to it as well that hinted at the conversation that would inevitably take place. She flashed him an assuring smile in the hope that it might soften the look on his face, knowing that all eyes were on him. It wasn’t good to have him looking more sullen than he usually did, and she sighed quietly to herself when his features relaxed somewhat. It was probably enough to stop tongues from wagging, but then she remembered what Jon had likely been doing in the south, and she knew that she’d have more damage control to perform in the coming days. A husband’s infidelity was as good a reason as any to lash out at him, whether there was an audience or not, but to do that was to admit her attachment to him. It was a weakness, one that could be used against her, and Sansa refused to let anybody, even Jon, have that kind of advantage over her.

Jon stared at her for a moment before those soft, grey eyes of his fell on her stomach, only to realize that the most evident sign of her condition was covered by the folds of her most voluminous cloak, something she had worn intentionally to hide her pregnancy from him. She was hardly that big, anyway, and would not be for many months yet; still, it made sense to her that the less he saw of her physical changes, the less likely it would be for him to come to terms with the situation at hand. It was better this way, she thought, watching with slight amusement as his brows furrowed in momentary confusion, that her pregnancy remained as foreign and intangible to him. Without a doubt in her mind she knew that he had only come back to save face after learning of her pregnancy, but it wouldn’t have surprised her if such news had been the force that had brought the walls of his fantasy crashing down, that fantasy in which he wasn’t married to her, that he wasn’t tied to the north. His melancholic behavior would likely worsen, she thought again, as she’d been thinking since she had learned of his plan to return. How soon would his melancholy turn into anger and resentment?

“Has everything been all right?” He inquired, his gaze returning to her face. “Have you been well?” His tone had a ring of sincerity to it that momentarily dashed away her worries—enough that she was almost inclined to believe that he cared.

Almost.

She nodded with another reassuring smile. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He didn’t answer, but she remained as subtle as ever, refusing to buckle under the scrutiny of his gaze.

“Is the babe well?”

“Yes.” It was concise and to-the-point, exactly the way that Jon liked it. Anything beyond that was extraneous, irrelevant in his mind, and for the first time she wished for his indifference. It would’ve made things so much easier.

Satisfied with their exchange, she took a step around him to welcome the rest of his party as they continued to trickle through the archway, only to be stopped by the hand he had wrapped around her wrist. Sansa glanced down at their point of contact before looking back at him, a brief flash of worry crossing her features before vanishing completely.

“We need to talk,” he said quietly, his voice as grave as his expression. “Alone.”

“You’d feel much better after a bath and a change of clothes,” she suggested, ignoring his request. “Let me have Kevan prepare the hot water. We’ll have your things out of your tr—”

“No,” he bit out, his fingers still firmly wrapped around her wrist. She could feel the warmth from his skin seeping into hers, despite the layers of fabric she wore. A Targaryen trait, she recalled, what with their skin as hot as fire. The reminder was followed by the Dragon Queen herself, of the warmth her body produced when pressed tightly against Jon’s— _a passion so great it could have brought down the Wall_ …

“I need to talk to you now, Sansa,” he urged, leaning in towards her so that his words couldn’t be heard by anyone else. “Why didn’t you—”

“Lord Tyrion!” She announced, perhaps with a bit too much relief, as she spotted the dwarf over Jon’s shoulder. The Hand was also riding a black palfrey, his shoulders draped with a cloak made of velvet and fur, a style so convincing she thought she would have mistaken him for a Northman had she been less knowledgeable. Sansa glanced back at Jon. “We’ll talk later,” she insisted, though she had no intention of honoring her statement. If she played her cards right, she wouldn’t have to speak with him until the morrow; by then, it would be too easy to blame her busy agenda for not being able to fit in a private audience with him.  

Jon stared at her wordlessly before releasing her. She stepped around him, leaving him in her wake as she approached the Hand, all while trying to ignore the determined gleam she had seen in grey his eyes that she hadn’t recognized before.  

“I hope you’re not too disappointed by my arrival, Your Grace,” the dwarf said, leaping off his saddle before a step could be brought before him for an easier dismount. He was a strange sight to behold, if only because time had altered her memories of him, like a painting where the lines and colours had been destroyed because someone had splashed water on it. Somewhere in the back of her mind Sansa remembered that she had been married to this man before, and yet it seemed to her a miscellaneous fact that was barely worth acknowledging. It was the way with all her of marriages, she thought, feeling Jon’s eyes on the back of her head—nothing more than a footnote, something that was hardly worth paying much attention to, except in the case of those devoutly interested.      

“Not disappointed,” she insisted, holding out her hand for him. “But I was very surprised to hear that you were accompanying the King back to Winterfell, though.”

Lord Tyrion reaches out to cradle her hand between his own little fingers before pressing his lips against the back of it. “I never did get a chance to see the North after the War, you see,” he explained. “According to your husband, it’s not the land I remembered it.”

Sansa knew that there must be more to his agenda than that, but she merely smiled. “You are more than welcome here, Lord Tyrion. I’m delighted to have you here with us.”

It was only after the words had been said did she realize that she meant them. For one thing, she knew that Jon held him in high esteem; his presence could potentially have a good influence on him, keep him in better spirits.    

Lord Tyrion bowed his head in deference. “I’m honoured to be here, Your Grace. Also,” he stepped forward, his neck tilted as far back as possible to look up at her, “I want to congratulate you. We know you wanted to keep it under wraps, and I can assure you that the news won’t spread, not until you’d like us to announce it.”

“You’re very kind, my lord, and I thank you.”

She could sense that Jon was watching her again, and it frustrated her to no end. She had hoped that he would have already made his way into the castle a long time ago, but the fact that he was still present set her on edge.  

“Lord Tyrion,” she began, urging him to follow her into the Great Keep. “Surely you must be tired from such a journey?”

“I most certainly am,” he confirmed.

“Then I’m sure the idea of a warm bath in front of a roaring fire would appeal to you, would it not?”

“Will it be attended by a beautiful woman?”

A comment of that sort might have scandalized a younger version of herself. The woman she became didn’t even bat an eyelash. “If you can convince His Grace to follow suit, than I can promise you a dozen beautiful women to attend to your bath for as long as you’re here.”

The dwarf clapped his gloved hands together in delight. “Well, that settles it, then. Come along, Your Grace,” he encouraged, gesturing towards the Great Keep with a nod of his head, “let’s get the filth and grime off us, if pleases the Queen. No beautiful servant girl for you though,” he added, pointing at the King somewhat impertinently. “You’re already married to the fairest woman in the North.”

Sansa smirked at the Hand’s comment, ignoring the way that Jon looked at her. He relented eventually, turning around to make his way towards the castle, Lord Tyrion beside him the whole time. _Married to the fairest woman in the North, but infatuated with the fairest woman in the south,_ she pondered, clutching her hands tightly. A strange notion flashed through her mind for only a moment before it disappeared altogether, making her frown.

* * *

It was to her good fortune that the next time she encountered Jon, it was during supper. Knowing his penchant for rambling on and on, Sansa had sent Maester Payton to the King’s solar, where he had been tasked with informing Jon of all that had taken place during his lengthy absence. The old man hadn’t let her down.

The Great Hall was packed tonight to welcome their King home, with the bulk of diners being members of their household, but a smattering of nobles were present as well. Ghost kept one of her feet warm beneath the table, and throughout the evening she threw scraps of meat and bone at him. The direwolf had followed his master south, though that had been more at her behest than Jon’s; Arya had made a passing remark in one of her letters about seeing Ghost again, and it was too simple a request that she couldn’t decline. Neither could she have denied Jon’s request to travel south when she realized how much he had taken to the idea. For all that had likely taken place while he’d been down there, Sansa knew that she had acquiesced because she knew that it would make him happy. She wanted that for him, despite all her heartbreak. Sansa wanted him to smile at her the way she had once remembered, wanted him to find meaning in the life he was fated to continue living. His polite mask of indifference couldn’t hide the ennui he’d been suffering from ever since he’d returned from the Wall, at least what was left of it. His unhappiness was like a tarnish on her the collage of successes, a mark of failure. She wasn’t enough for him—far from it.

Unable to staunch her curiosity, Sansa peeked over at him, sitting beside her on the great chair. A bad idea, she realized afterwards; it made her remember the magnetic pull that existed between Jon and Daenerys, as if an invisible rope were tied around their waists, so that where one was, the other was never far behind. If only she’d taken it seriously when she had the chance. Prior to her realizations, the notion of a broken heart had, in her mind, been a thing of imagination. Sansa had learned, over and over, how real an affliction it could truly be. It was such a shame that Jon had been the cause. It was such shame that their marriage had come to this.

They didn’t speak much to each other, but she had anticipated that. Sansa inquired about her sister, even went so far as to ask after the Dragon Queen’s health, only because she knew that Jon wouldn’t confess anything, not before their subjects. His eyes continually found their way to her stomach, only to come up empty each time. She had taken some pains when it came to picking out a gown, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to depend on her furred cloak to cover the growing swell of her belly. She was more determined than ever to bring as little attention as possible to her condition while in her husband’s company, eager to keep it out of his mind. He wanted answers, she knew, but she wasn’t in any mood to give him any.

To her surprise, she found some distraction in the form of Lord Tyrion, who sat on her left. Sansa glanced at the Hand with as much curiosity as she did whenever she glanced at Jon, the nature of his agenda still a preoccupation in her mind. Despite his earlier explanation, she wasn’t satisfied.

“Might I ask what about myself makes you so fascinated with me at the moment, Your Grace?” He inquired suddenly, while the attendants removed the platter of roasted mutton laid out before them. One of Jon’s favourite dishes was stewed mutton, and she had ordered the cook to prepare it for this evening’s meal, hoping it would be better company than herself. A quick evaluation at both his plate and the platter that had been taken away told her that he hadn’t eaten much. Had she mistaken his preferences? Or had his palette been altered by the cuisine he’d had in the south?

She pushed the thoughts aside as she smiled sheepishly at the Hand. “It’s just dawned on me recently that I haven’t seen you since—well, since I had last been in King’s Landing.”

Sansa didn’t bring up Joffery’s wedding, or the events that had followed. In some strange way, it was almost akin to the ale she had been drinking throughout the evening: barely tangible if she were to pour it into her hands, and yet as solid-looking as ever within the confines of a cup. She could drown in those memories, just as she could drown in the heartache she had felt so acutely only a little while prior. Sansa had overcome both counts—she would do whatever it took to overcome any other trial that came her way, if only because she no longer had a choice. The day would come when she will hold her child in her arms, a child who will need her as much as she will need it.

The Hand sighed dramatically. “I was quite hoping you would say it was because of my fine looks, but what you’ve actually said is surely more accurate. We _have_ come a long way though, haven’t we?”

“Yes, we have,” she agreed, nodding her head, but something was still missing. “It’s not the end though.”

Lord Tyrion gave her a pensive look. “Our tragedies are behind us, Your Grace. Even if you’re of a more cautious mind, surely you must know that the worse is over.”

There was so much that she could say to that, so much that she _wanted_ to say, but she knew that she was in the wrong company to do so. Beside her she could hear Jon conversing with Ser Davos, their voices low and muted. Cheers erupted in the hall when the next dish was brought out, but she still sat there wordlessly, as the Hand’s comment went through her mind again and again, for reasons she had no desire to meditate on.

“Are you all right, Your Grace?” Lord Tyrion asked. Sansa hadn’t realized how far her mind had drifted off until then; when the dwarf’s face came back into focus, she saw the concern written all over it.

The feel of Jon’s hand atop of hers prevented her from assuring the Hand otherwise. At the sudden contact she gasped, yanking her hand away from beneath his as if she had just been burned by fire. Sansa stared at him, bewildered, her eyes as wide as moons, while her heart raced almost painfully in her chest.

Jon stared at her with just as much astoundment on his face, but in his grey eyes she thought she saw hurt as well. For some reason she wanted to laugh. _You’re hurt because of_ that _?_ She nearly blurted out, trying to hold in the tears that were suddenly threatening to emerge. _What would you rank my pain then, Jon?_  

Her name on his lips was almost like a plea, but Sansa ignored it. _You’re better than this_ , she chanted to herself, over and over, channeling all of her energy into keeping her emotions in check. Jon’s gaze was still fixed intently on her, as frozen as the statues that lived in the crypts beneath them. He had touched her before, when they had been in the courtyard together, but tonight was the first time that his skin had met hers, when she had least anticipated it. There wasn’t any reason for it, anymore, now that she was with child; for Jon, there had been never been any good reason for it, when his desire had been for someone else.

Sansa didn’t want to think more on it, but it all came at once, like a rush of blood to the head: once, when she had thought she had no one else but Jon, she had indulged herself by leaning into his touch, on those occasions when he would offer it; those nights when he came to her bedchamber, her heart an uneven, rapid beat against her chest, as he gently undid the laces of her dress, causing shivers down her back when his fingers ghosted across her skin. And even when she realized that they had been falsehoods, it had been hard to deny them. She was a poor substitute for his Dragon Queen, this much she knew, but now that he’d fulfilled his duty with her, it shouldn’t matter anymore whose bed he wanted to share.

“Your Grace?”

At the sound of the Hand’s voice, the plaguing thoughts disappeared. She blinked at Jon several times before realizing where she was, turning away from abruptly him to assess the damage of her actions. The Great Hall was still noisy with music and the clink of spoon and forks, and when she stole a glance at the diners around her, it was apparent that her reaction had somehow gone unnoticed, drowned out by all the commotion. An absolute relief, she thought, exhaling deeply.  

“Sansa,” Jon said, the same way he had done earlier, but she gestured dismissively before he could say anything more. “It’s nothing,” she insisted, turning her head to look at Lord Tyrion, determined to wipe the dubious look on his face. “It’s a strange symptom of pregnancy,” she lied. “I tend to get startled rather easily these days, you see. Even a mouse would have a better chance against me,” she jested, smiling widely.

The Hand smiled back, though his concern was still apparent. “A good thing your husband isn’t a prowling cat, then,” he said.

“Perhaps I’ve just forgotten what it’s like to have a husband by my side again,” she explained, leaning in toward the dwarf so he could hear the rest, “and I know not what to do, now that I have two of them in my company.”

The way that Lord Tyrion looked over her shoulder told her that Jon had overheard. “I think it’s rather safe to say that our ship floundered before it ever took sail,” he answered. “But some things are sometimes for the best. Isn’t that right, my King?”

She glanced at Jon. His face remained hard with concern, and with an expectant look she urged him to respond.

“Yes. You’re right.”

Better than nothing, she supposed, turning back to look at the Hand again. The awkward air that her reaction had caused had disappeared by this point, and she guided the conversation towards other subjects, all the while hoping that Jon would just leave. Eventually her wish was granted when he rose from his seat to announce that he was retiring for the night, though he bade that everyone continue on with their merriment, if they so pleased.

“It’s best that I stay,” she cut in, before he had any chance to ask her to follow him. “There are some matters I must attend to first with Maester Payton before I can retire for the night. Sleep well, husband.”

“Can’t they wait until tomorrow?” He asked, frowning.

“These matters are important, Your Grace,” she lied, her voice steady. “I do bid you a good night, though.”

Jon continued to study her face closely, unconvinced. Sansa wasn’t worried. Vestiges of his old self, of the man she married, were showing itself again—the apathetic response to everything, his wife and his duty, a hollow shell of his past character; she could handle this rendition of Jon, even if she hated it as well. It was one thing for Jon to feel. It was another thing entirely for him to act on his feelings.

In the end he bade her a good night, leaving the Great Hall with his squire and two guards at his heels. For less than a moment she had hoped, as she hoped before, that he didn’t give up so easily—that he felt enough of something for her to fight for it, to fight for _her_. At least it hurt less nowadays, each time he didn’t.  

_You bed a queen in the south and forget the one you left in the north, but I won’t be broken._

“His Grace _must_ be tired after so many days of hard riding,” Lord Tyrion pointed out, as soon as Jon disappeared through the archway. “He’ll likely never get on another horse again for a long while yet, but I think it’s a price he’s willing to pay to be reunited with his beautiful wife.”

The irony was so great that she thought it physically stung, but she forced herself to smile. Sansa knew that neither Jon nor Daenerys were foolish enough to flaunt their affair before the court, but it also meant that she was constantly beating around the bush. It could be so, so tiring.

They conversed a little while longer, until she was convinced that Jon had retired to bed. By then the wine casks had run dry for the evening and the heaviness of a long day hung on everybody; when she too bade everyone a good night to seek the quiet comfort of her own bedchamber, she knew that most would follow suit. Her bones were aching relentlessly now and her back was giving her more pains than she had wanted, but she decided to honor the excuse she had told Jon by inviting Maester Payton to accompany her back to her chambers. He did a quick evaluation of her symptoms and condition before deeming her in good health.

She was beginning to unravel the braids of her hair when there was a knock on her door. “Maester Payton must have forgotten something,” she explained to her handmaiden before giving her permission to open the door.

It wasn’t Maester Payton, after all. Sansa knew it the moment she saw the look on her handmaiden’s face through the glass.  

“It’s the King, Your Grace. He wishes to speak with you.”

Her hands froze in her hair. How could he still be awake? After a journey of that magnitude, after the soothing bath, the food and the wine, she’d been positive that he would’ve been asleep before his head even hit the pillow.

She almost thought to deny him, using her own tiredness to keep him out, until she remembered the gleam in his eyes that she had noticed earlier, when they had been in the courtyard. Sansa hadn’t been able to shake it off, not until a good while later, but now the memory came back full force. Jon wanted answers, and he wanted them badly, even if it was only to assuage his guilt. She could send him away, but the delay might transform his guilt into resentment—that was something she didn’t want. No, it wouldn’t do to send him away, she thought, reevaluating the situation from a different angle. Perhaps if she relented just a little, he’d be satisfied enough with that, at least until she figured something better out.

Sansa finally nodded at her handmaiden to allow him in, turning back to face the glass so that she could study his reflection, rather than the real man himself. She took her time unraveling the remainder of the braids, bent on looking as nonchalant as possible by his sudden reappearance.

Through the spaces between a thick curtain of own hair, Sansa looked at the glass to see Jon’s reflection as he crossed the threshold, pausing after a few steps, his demeanor hesitant. He was still dressed in the clothes he wore at supper. It was a stark reminder that she was only in her shift, that her growing belly would be more visible than he had ever seen it. _Perfect_.

The door had already clicked shut just as she thought to call her handmaiden back to fetch her dressing robe, leaving her to do the best out of her situation.  

“Aren’t you tired?” She asked, casting her gaze on the floor in front of her as she spoke. “You’ve been through such a long journey. Lord Tyrion mentioned that you had several days of hard riding.”

“I’ve barely slept,” Jon said. “I’ve barely been able to rest since I learned you were pregnant.”

Sansa kept her eyes fixed on the floor, but the tiredness she could hear in his voice made it difficult to deny the truth in his comment.

“I see,” she said, hands still working through her locks. It was comforting, almost soothing, considering the high tension that had followed her husband into the sanctuary of her bedchamber. “It shouldn’t have come as _that_ much of a shock to you, really. It’s our duty to produce an heir, remember?”

“You know I’m not here because of that.”

“Then why _are_ you here, Jon?” The name sounded foreign against her tongue.

“How did it come to be that I learned you were with child when it slipped through Olenna Tyrell’s mouth?”

Her hands stopped moving. When she looked at the glass again, she could see Jon striding towards her, but before he could close the final distance between them she rose from her seat, quick to get away. There was a certain amount of space that needed to be between them for her to remain in control; though she was constantly trying to lock her emotions in the deepest recesses of herself, Sansa knew that if he came close enough, he might see the pain he’d inflicted, might learn just how badly affected she was by his betrayal.

The worse part of it all, when she thought about his infidelity, was the unintentional air that existed in it all; that the magnetic pull that had always existed between Jon and Daenerys, likely generated during the first moments of their initial encounter, that bond of theirs, had finally evolved into something that neither could deny, even if any either of them wanted to. _Theirs is the song of ice and fire_ , she remembered someone sing, but she hadn’t realized how grave and serious the words were until now, when her heart was in shambles and her dreams as tattered as they’d always been.

“Olena Tyrell has been rather bitter towards me since the War’s end,” she commented, trying to keep her voice steady. “Arya said that you hid it quite well, though. If she was looking to one up you, I’d say she failed. What is there to be so worked up about?”

“You think I’m upset because I was humiliated?”

She crooked a curious eyebrow at him, running her fingers through her locks absentmindedly. “What other reason is there?” Her tone was innocent, but she was fairly certain that she could guess what he was referring to.

Jon stared at her in disbelief. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me, Sansa? You wrote me letter after letter, and I read them all, but you never mentioned you were pregnant, not even once. Why?”

She responded with a mild shrug, keeping her face as passive as ever. It was the one question she had anticipated, since she learned that he was returning, and yet oddly enough, she didn’t have a straight answer for it, at least not for Jon. Their marriage had been built around evasion; rather than making any attempts to break the walls that had been erected between them, his indifference had evolved into an ocean too wide for her to cross, a fact that only became clearer the more she realized how badly he didn’t want to be saved—not by her, at least.

“You would have learned about it eventually,” she reasoned, as if such an answer should have placated him. “What matter does it make if you knew now or six months from now, when the babe arrives? More to the point, though,” she pressed on, just as he opened his mouth to protest, “I didn’t want anyone in King’s Landing to know, at least not yet. A letter to the Reach seemed safer than a letter to the capital. I guess I thought Margery Tyrell could keep a secret.”

It was a pretty weak explanation, she knew, but it was the best that she would give him. Margery had been the only person she had really told, and even then she had only implied it in her letters. Her own household hadn’t known, either, save for Maester Payton. It wasn’t hard to figure out how Olenna Tyrell caught wind of the news, was even less difficult to imagine someone like the matriarch throwing it out like that before Jon and everyone who had been on that tour to the Reach, including Daenerys Targaryen and Arya. Had it not been so detrimental to her own plans, Sansa could’ve smiled at the whole thing.

Jon looked far from satisfied. “You trusted Margery Tyrell with news of your pregnancy over your own husband,” he accused. Sansa couldn’t help but roll her eyes. She supposed that it was something worth noting, that he still identified with being her husband.

“You would have told Arya,” she countered, setting her cool gaze on him, “and your aunt, as well. Neither would have kept the news to themselves, especially when the politics of the Kingdom would take a turn because of it.”

“So you weren’t ever going to tell me,” he concluded, looking away with frustration marring his features. “If you could’ve had it your way, I wouldn’t have known until I came back to Winterfell.”

She held her head high, even while the meaning behind his words caused another crack in what she had thought was her mended heart. His stay had extended from one moon to another, all of them with excuse that too many matters still had to be dealt with, when she knew that politics had little to do with anything. “And when would you have come back, had this not happened?” She demanded, maintaining an air of nonchalance, eager to show him that it meant nothing to her either way. She wondered how she would react if he only spoke the truth—if _both_ of them did. Would they both be better off for it? Or would they only flounder, burning the very last of their bridges that connected one of them to the other?

Jon’s face fell just as he turned his head away to look elsewhere. Sansa saw it as proof of his guilt, of what he’d pursued while in King’s Landing. His guilt was what had brought him back to her, was likely the reason he’d stay, but it was the resentment that would grow within him that she worried for. Guilt was an easily controllable emotion; but resentment, along with her cousin anger, was another thing entirely, both too independent and wild for her to rein in. She’s not sure she could handle a resentful Jon, not unless there was something to staunch the emotion, to keep it in check.

_Something, or someone?_

“Jon,” she began, keeping her voice steady, even while her mind was abuzz with an idea so beyond her grasp, and yet so dangerously brilliant, that she nearly keeled over in awe at the thought of it. It could work, or it could not, but they were both so gone from their point of origin that she thought there was nothing to lose. He’ll never be happy here, she reminded herself, heart racing in the cavity of her chest, but she would have to keep him placated somehow, if she wanted to keep the status quo. A distraction was what he needed—she was certain she knew just where to find one. Jon didn’t love her, but she had already accepted that she didn’t need it, anyway. Not anymore. Sansa had managed to build a reputation for herself as a competent monarch, adept at the politics that unfolded around and within her court, loved by the small folk for her charitable nature and respected by her nobles, even those who hadn’t thought her fit. Jon might not find any meaning in his duties any longer, but _she_ did. It was even more important now, with their child growing inside of her; she wanted her progeny to inherit a kingdom fit to live in, rather than this war-ravaged place she had been working so hard to keep together. She wanted her children to know what it meant to be children, rather than pawns in a game where survival or death was the only two outcomes.

“Jon,” she said again, this time with some more warmth to it. “Try to get some rest, please. You’re tired, and that’s taking its toll on you. Let Maester Payton prescribe some Milk of the Poppy. We’ll talk some other time.”

He raised his head to look at her again, his face as sullen as she had always remembered it. “You’re trying to get rid of me again.”

 _If only you knew_. “Can you blame me? I’d like to go to sleep as well, you know. I can’t exactly do that when you want to keep prolonging a conversation we could’ve had tomorrow.” _Or never._

His eyes fell to her stomach again, the way it had been since she had welcomed him back, except this time there wasn’t a cloak or a high-waisted dress to cover it. Sansa watched as his face slackened, replaced with a flash of curiosity and something else. Tenderness?

“Forgive me,” he said, his voice as soft as the skin of a babe–their babe’s, she realized, her emotions threatening to erupt again. It was harder to control them now, as she moved further along in the term. Sansa rued the day when she could no longer staunch them, revealing to the one person she didn’t want knowing just how weak she could be. She had forgotten just how soft and tender Jon could be, considering the distant way he would behave with her.

“Never mind,” she said, gesturing towards the door with a dismissive hand. Sansa turned her back to him with the pretence of finding something on her dressing table, hoping he understood that they were done. While she had been honest about her own fatigue, her mind was as active as a galloping horse, turning over the stones of doubt that could cause the plan forming to go awry, but knowing that she’d already bought into it, thus putting little weight into those doubts. It felt like an eternity while he still stood there, making her worry that he would prolong this encounter of theirs with more questions, but his footsteps push the possibility aside. The moment she heard her door shut, Sansa collapsed onto her seat, the realization of all that was happening around her like a violent wave against a jagged cliff.

Something had to be done, now that Jon had returned. And Sansa was no longer afraid of doing things that had to be done.

 

 

 **AN:** ****I really shouldn't be starting a new story, but I couldn't get this out of my head.

 


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